A Protegee of Jack Hamlin's by Bret Harte

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The lady shrugged her shoulders disdainfully. "That's all rightenough, I reckon. There's a hundred thousand dollars in thesyndicate. Maw put in twenty thousand, and Custer's bound to makeit go--particularly as there's some talk of a compromise. ButMalcolm's a crank, and I reckon if it wasn't for the compromise thesyndicate wouldn't have much show. Why, he didn't even know thatthe McHulishes had no title."

"Do you think he has been suffering under a delusion in regard tohis relationship?"

"No; he was only a fool in the way he wanted to prove it. Heactually got these boys to think it could be filibustered into hispossession. Had a sort of idea of 'a rising in the Highlands,' youknow, like that poem or picture--which is it? And those fool boys,and Custer among them, thought it would be great fun and a greatspree. Luckily, maw had the gumption to get Watson to write overabout it to one of his friends, a Mr.--Mr.--MacFen, a veryprominent man."

"Perhaps you mean Sir James MacFen," suggested the consul. "He's aknight. And what did HE say?" he added eagerly.

"Oh, he wrote a most sensible letter," returned the lady, apparentlymollified by the title of Watson's adviser, "saying that there waslittle doubt, if any, that if the American McHulishes wanted the oldestate they could get it by the expenditure of a little capital. Heoffered to make the trial; that was the compromise they're talkingabout. But he didn't say anything about there being no 'Lord'McHulish."

"Perhaps he thought, as you were Americans, you didn't care forTHAT," said the consul dryly.

"That's no reason why we shouldn't have it if it belonged to us, orwe chose to pay for it," said the lady pertly.

"Then your changed personal relations with Mr. McHulish is thereason why you hear so little of his progress or his expectations?"

"Yes; but he don't know that they are changed, for we haven't seenhim since we've been here, although they say he's here, and hidingsomewhere about."

"Why should he be hiding?"

The young girl lifted her pretty brows. "Maybe he thinks it'smysterious. Didn't I tell you he was a crank?" Yet she laughed sonaively, and with such sublime unconsciousness of any reflection onherself, that the consul was obliged to smile too.

"You certainly do not seem to be breaking your heart as well asyour engagement," he said.

"Not much--but here comes maw. Look here," she said, turningsuddenly and coaxingly upon him, "if she asks you to come alongwith us up north, you'll come, won't you? Do! It will be suchfun!"

"Up north?" repeated the consul interrogatively.

"Yes; to see the property. Here's maw."

A more languid but equally well-appointed woman had entered theroom. When the ceremony of introduction was over, she turned toher daughter and said, "Run away, dear, while I talk business with--er--this gentleman," and, as the girl withdrew laughingly, shehalf stifled a reminiscent yawn, and raised her heavy lids to theconsul.

"You've had a talk with my Elsie?"

The consul confessed to having had that pleasure.

"She speaks her mind," said Mrs. Kirkby wearily, "but she meanswell, and for all her flightiness her head's level. And since herfather died she runs me," she continued with a slight laugh. Aftera pause, she added abstractedly, "I suppose she told you of herengagement to young McHulish?"

"Yes; but she said she had broken it."

Mrs. Kirkby lifted her eyebrows with an expression of relief. "Itwas a piece of girl and boy foolishness, anyway," she said. "Elsieand he were children together at MacCorkleville,--second cousins,in fact,--and I reckon he got her fancy excited over his nobility,and his being the chief of the McHulishes. Of course Custer willmanage to get something for the shareholders out of it,--I neverknew him to fail in a money speculation yet,--but I think that'sabout all. I had an idea of going up with Elsie to take a look atthe property, and I thought of asking you to join us. Did Elsietell you? I know she'd like it--and so would I."

For all her indolent, purposeless manner, there was enough latentsincerity and earnestness in her request to interest the consul.Besides, his own curiosity in regard to this singularly supportedclaim was excited, and here seemed to be an opportunity ofsatisfying it. He was not quite sure, either, that his previousantagonism to his fair countrywoman's apparent selfishness andsnobbery was entirely just. He had been absent from America a longtime; perhaps it was he himself who had changed, and lost touchwith his compatriots. And yet the demonstrative independence andrecklessness of men like Custer were less objectionable to, andless inconsistent with, his American ideas than the snobbishnessand almost servile adaptability of the women. Or was it possiblethat it was only a weakness of the sex, which no republicannativity or education could eliminate? Nevertheless he looked upsmilingly.

"But the property is, I understand, scattered about in variousplaces," he said.

"Oh, but we mean to go only to Kelpie Island, where there is theruin of an old castle. Elsie must see that."

The consul thought it might be amusing. "By all means let us seethat. I shall be delighted to go with you."

His ready and unqualified assent appeared to relieve and dissipatethe lady's abstraction. She became more natural and confiding;spoke freely of Malcolm's mania, which she seemed to accept as ahallucination or a conviction with equal cheerfulness, and, inbrief, convinced the consul that her connection with the scheme wasonly the caprice of inexperienced and unaccustomed idleness. Heleft her, promising to return the next day and arrange for theirearly departure.

His way home lay through one of the public squares of St.Kentigern, at an hour of the afternoon when it was crossed byworking men and women returning to their quarters from the docksand factories. Never in any light a picturesque or even cheeryprocession, there were days when its unwholesome, monotonouspoverty and dull hopelessness of prospect impressed him moreforcibly. He remembered how at first the spectacle of barefootedgirls and women slipping through fog and mist across the greasypavement had offended his fresh New World conception of a moretenderly nurtured sex, until his susceptibilities seemed to havegrown as callous and hardened as the flesh he looked upon, and hehad begun to regard them from the easy local standpoint of adistinct and differently equipped class.

It chanced, also, that this afternoon some of the male workers hadadded to their usual solidity a singular trance-like intoxication.It had often struck him before as a form of drunkenness peculiar tothe St. Kentigern laborers. Men passed him singly and silently, asif following some vague alcoholic dream, or moving through someScotch mist of whiskey and water. Others clung unsteadily but assilently together, with no trace of convivial fellowship orhilarity in their dull fixed features and mechanically movinglimbs. There was something weird in this mirthless companionship,and the appalling loneliness of those fixed or abstracted eyes.Suddenly he was aware of two men who were reeling toward him underthe influence of this drug-like intoxication, and he was startledby a likeness which one of them bore to some one he had seen; butwhere, and under what circumstances, he could not determine. Thefatuous eye, the features of complacent vanity and self-satisfiedreverie were there, either intensified by drink, or perhapssuggesting it through some other equally hopeless form ofhallucination. He turned and followed the man, trying to identifyhim through his companion, who appeared to be a petty tradesman ofa shrewder, more material type. But in vain, and as the pairturned into a side street the consul slowly retraced his steps.But he had not proceeded far before the recollection that hadescaped him returned, and he knew that the likeness suggested bythe face he had seen was that of Malcolm McHulish.

III.

A journey to Kelpie Island consisted of a series of consecutiveepisodes by rail, by coach, and by steamboat. The consul wasalready familiar with them, as indeed were most of the civilizedworld, for it seemed that all roads at certain seasons led out ofand returned to St. Kentigern as a point in a vast circle whereintravelers were sure to meet one another again, coming or going, atcertain depots and caravansaries with more or less superiority orenvy. Tourists on the road to the historic crags of Wateffa camesharply upon other tourists returning from them, and glaredsuspiciously at them, as if to wrest the dread secret from theirsouls--a scrutiny which the others returned with half-humorous pityor superior calm.

The consul knew, also, that the service by boat and rail wasadmirable and skillful; for were not the righteous St.Kentigerners of the tribe of Tubal-cain, great artificers in steeland iron, and a mighty race of engineers before the Lord, who hadcarried their calling and accent beyond the seas? He knew, too,that the land of these delightful caravansaries overflowed withmarmalade and honey, and that the manna of delicious scones andcakes fell even upon deserted waters of crag and heather. He knewthat their way would lie through much scenery whose rudebarrenness, and grim economy of vegetation, had been usuallyaccepted by cockney tourists for sublimity and grandeur; but heknew, also, that its severity was mitigated by lowland glimpsesof sylvan luxuriance and tangled delicacy utterly unlike thecomplacent snugness of an English pastoral landscape, with whichit was often confounded and misunderstood, as being tame andcivilized.

It rained the day they left St. Kentigern, and the next, andthe day after that, spasmodically, as regarded local effort,sporadically, as seen through the filmed windows of railwaycarriages or from the shining decks of steamboats. There wasalways a shower being sown somewhere along the valley, orreluctantly tearing itself from a mountain-top, or being pulledinto long threads from the leaden bosom of a lake; the coach sweptin and out of them to the folding and unfolding of umbrellas andmackintoshes, accompanied by flying beams of sunlight that racedwith the vehicle on long hillsides, and vanished at the turn of theroad. There were hat-lifting scurries of wind down the mountain-side, small tumults in little lakes below, hysteric ebullitions onmild, melancholy inland seas, boisterous passages of nearly half anhour with landings on tempestuous miniature quays. All this seenthrough wonderful aqueous vapor, against a background of skydarkened at times to the depths of an India ink washed sketch, butmore usually blurred and confused on the surface like the graysilhouette of a child's slate-pencil drawing, half rubbed from theslate by soft palms. Occasionally a rare glinting of real sunshineon a distant fringe of dripping larches made some frowning crestappear to smile as through wet lashes.

Miss Elsie tucked her little feet under the mackintosh. "I know,"she said sadly, "I should get web-footed if I stayed here long,Why, it's like coming down from Ararat just after the delugecleared up."

Mrs. Kirkby suggested that if the sun would only shine squarely anddecently, like a Christian, for a few moments, they could see theprospect better.

The consul here pointed out that the admirers of Scotch scenerythought that this was its greatest charm. It was this misty effectwhich made it so superior to what they called the vulgar chromosand sun-pictures of less favored lands.

"You mean because it prevents folks from seeing how poor the viewreally is."

The consul remarked that perhaps distance was lacking. As to thesun shining in a Christian way, this might depend upon the localidea of Christianity.

"Well, I don't call the scenery giddy or frivolous, certainly. AndI reckon I begin to understand the kind of sermons Malcolm's folksbrought over to MacCorkleville. I guess they didn't know much ofthe heaven they only saw once a year. Why, even the highest hills--which they call mountains here--ain't big enough to get above thefogs of their own creating."

Feminine wit is not apt to be abstract. It struck the consul thatin Miss Elsie's sprightliness there was the usual ulterior andpersonal object, and he glanced around at his fellow-passengers.The object evidently was sitting at the end of the opposite seat,an amused but well-behaved listener. For the rest, he was stillyoung and reserved, but in face, figure, and dress utterly unlikehis companions,--an Englishman of a pronounced and distinct type,the man of society and clubs. While there was more or less hintingof local influence in the apparel of the others,--there was a kilt,and bare, unweather-beaten knees from Birmingham, and even theAmerican Elsie wore a bewitching tam-o'-shanter,--the strangercarried easy distinction, from his tweed traveling-cap to his well-made shoes and gaiters, as an unmistakable Southerner. His deepand pleasantly level voice had been heard only once or twice, andthen only in answering questions, and his quiet, composed eyesalone had responded to the young girl's provocation.

They were passing a brown glen, in the cheerless depths of which abrown watercourse, a shade lighter, was running, and occasionallyfoaming like brown beer. Beyond it heaved an arid bulk ofhillside, the scant vegetation of which, scattered like patches ofhair, made it look like the decaying hide of some huge antediluvianruminant. On the dreariest part of the dreary slope rose the ruinsof a tower, and crumbling walls and battlements.

"Whatever possessed folks to build there?" said Miss Elsie. "Ifthey were poor, it might be some excuse; but that those old swells,or chiefs, should put up a castle in such a God-forsaken place getsME."

"But don't you know, they WERE poor, according to our modern ideas,and I fancy they built these things more for defense than show, andreally more to gather in cattle--like one of your Texan ranches--after a raid. That is, I have heard so; I rather fancy that wasthe idea, wasn't it?" It was the Englishman who had spoken, andwas now looking around at the other passengers as if in easydeference to local opinion.

"What raid?" said Miss Elsie, animatedly. "Oh, yes; I see--one oftheir old border raids--moss-troopers. I used to like to readabout them."

"I fancy, don't you know," said the Englishman slowly, "that itwasn't exactly THAT sort of thing, you know, for it's a good wayfrom the border; but it was one of their raids upon theirneighbors, to lift their cattle--steal 'em, in fact. That's theway those chaps had. But of course you've read all about that.You Americans, don't you know, are all up in these historicalmatters."

"Eh, but they were often reprisals," said a Scotch passenger.

"I don't suppose they took much trouble to inquire if the beastsbelonged to an enemy," said the Englishman.

But here Miss Elsie spoke of castles generally, and averred thatthe dearest wish of her life was to see Macbeth's castle at Glamis,where Duncan was murdered. At which the Englishman, stilldeferentially, mistrusted the fact that the murder had beencommitted there, and thought that the castle to which Shakespeareprobably referred, if he hadn't invented the murder, too, wasfarther north, at Cawdor. "You know," he added playfully, "overthere in America you've discovered that Shakespeare himself was aninvention."

This led to some retaliating brilliancy from the young lady, andwhen the coach stopped at the next station their conversation hadpresumably become interesting enough to justify him in securing aseat nearer to her. The talk returning to ruins, Miss Elsieinformed him that they were going to see some on Kelpie Island.The consul, from some instinctive impulse,--perhaps a recollectionof Custer's peculiar methods, gave her a sign of warning. But theEnglishman only lifted his eyebrows in a kind of half-humorousconcern.

"I don't think you'd like it, you know. It's a beastly place,--rocks and sea,--worse than this, and half the time you can't seethe mainland, only a mile away. Really, you know, they oughtn't tohave induced you to take tickets there--those excursion-ticketchaps. They're jolly frauds. It's no place for a stranger to goto."

"But there are the ruins of an old castle, the old seat of"--began the astonished Miss Elsie; but she was again stopped by asignificant glance from the consul.

"I believe there was something of the kind there once--somethinglike your friends the cattle-stealers' castle over on thathillside," returned the Englishman; "but the stones were taken bythe fishermen for their cabins, and the walls were quite pulleddown."

"How dared they do that?" said the young lady indignantly. "I callit not only sacrilege, but stealing."

"It was defrauding the owner of the property; they might as welltake his money," said Mrs. Kirkby, in languid protest.

The smile which this outburst of proprietorial indignation broughtto the face of the consul lingered with the Englishman's reply.

"But it was only robbing the old robbers, don't you know, and theyput their spoils to better use than their old masters did;certainly to more practical use than the owners do now, for theruins are good for nothing."

"The associations wouldn't be anything except to the family, youknow; and I should fancy they wouldn't be either hallowed orpleasant. As for picturesqueness, the ruins are beastly ugly;weather-beaten instead of being mellowed by time, you know, andbare where they ought to be hidden by vines and moss. I can't makeout why anybody sent you there, for you Americans are ratherparticular about your sightseeing."

"We heard of them through a friend," said the consul, with assumedcarelessness. "Perhaps it's as good an excuse as any for apleasant journey."

"And very likely your friend mistook it for something else, or washimself imposed upon," said the Englishman politely. "But youmight not think it so, and, after all," he added thoughtfully,"it's years since I've seen it. I only meant that I could show yousomething better a few miles from my place in Gloucestershire, andnot quite so far from a railway as this. If," he added with apleasant deliberation which was the real courtesy of hisconventionally worded speech, "you ever happened at any time to beanywhere near Audrey Edge, and would look me up, I should be gladto show it to you and your friends." An hour later, when he leftthem at a railway station where their paths diverged, Miss Elsierecovered a fluency that she had lately checked. "Well, I likethat! He never told us his name, or offered a card. I wonder ifthey call that an invitation over here. Does he suppose anybody'sgoing to look up his old Audrey Edge--perhaps it's named after hiswife--to find out who HE is? He might have been civil enough tohave left his name, if he--meant anything."

"But I assure you he was perfectly sincere, and meant aninvitation," returned the consul smilingly. "Audrey Edge isevidently a well-known place, and he a man of some position. Thatis why he didn't specify either."

"Well, you won't catch me going there," said Miss Elsie.

"You would be quite right in either going or staying away," saidthe consul simply.

Miss Elsie tossed her head slightly. Nevertheless, before theyleft the station, she informed him that she had been told that thestation-master had addressed the stranger as "my lord," and thatanother passenger had said he was "Lord Duncaster."

"And that proves"--

"That I'm right," said the young lady decisively, "and that hisinvitation was a mere form."

It was after sundown when they reached the picturesque and well-appointed hotel that lifted itself above the little fishing-villagewhich fronted Kelpie Island. The hotel was in as strong contrastto the narrow, curving street of dull, comfortless-looking stonecottages below it, as were the smart tourists who had just landedfrom the steamer to the hard-visaged, roughly clad villagers whowatched them with a certain mingling of critical independence andsuperior self-righteousness. As the new arrivals walked down themain street, half beach, half thoroughfare, their baggage followingthem in low trolleys drawn by porters at their heels, like adecorous funeral, the joyless faces of the lookers-on added to theresemblance. Beyond them, in the prolonged northern twilight, thewaters of the bay took on a peculiar pewtery brightness, but withthe usual mourning-edged border of Scotch seacoast scenery. Lowbanks of cloud lay on the chill sea; the outlines of Kelpie Islandwere hidden.

But the interior of the hotel, bright with the latest fastidiousnessin modern decoration and art-furniture, and gay with picturedcanvases and color, seemed to mock the sullen landscape, and thesterile crags amid which the building was set. An attempt to make apleasance in this barren waste had resulted only in empty vases,bleak statuary, and iron settees, as cold and slippery to the touchas the sides of their steamer.

"It'll be a fine morning to-morra, and ther'll be a boat going awayto Kelpie for a peekneek in the ruins," said the porter, as theconsul and his fair companions looked doubtfully from the windowsof the cheerful hall.

A picnic in the sacred ruins of Kelpie! The consul saw the ladiesstiffening with indignation at this trespass upon their possiblerights and probable privileges, and glanced at them warningly.

"Do you mean to say that it is common property, and ANYBODY can gothere?" demanded Miss Elsie scornfully.

"No; it's only the hotel that owns the boat and gives the tickets--a half-crown the passage."

"And do the owners, the McHulishes, permit this?"

The porter looked at them with a puzzled, half-pitying politeness.He was a handsome, tall, broad-shouldered young fellow, with acertain naive and gentle courtesy of manner that relieved hisstrong accent, "Oh, ay," he said, with a reassuring smile; "ye'llno be troubled by THEM. I'll just gang away noo, and see if I cansecure the teekets."

An elderly guest, who was examining a time-table on the wall,turned to them as the porter disappeared.

"Ye'll be strangers noo, and not knowing that Tonalt the porter isa McHulish hissel'?" he said deliberately.

"A what?" said the astonished Miss Elsie.

"A McHulish. Ay, one of the family. The McHulishes of Kelpie werehis own forebears. Eh, but he's a fine lad, and doin' well for thehotel."

Miss Elsie extinguished a sudden smile with her handkerchief as hermother anxiously inquired, "And are the family as poor as that?"

The prophecy of Donald McHulish as to the weather came true. Thenext morning was bright and sunny, and the boat to Kelpie Island--a large yawl--duly received its complement of passengers andprovision hampers. The ladies had apparently become more tolerantof their fellow pleasure-seekers, and it appeared that Miss Elsiehad even overcome her hilarity at the discovery of what "might havebeen" a relative in the person of the porter Donald. "I had a longtalk with him before breakfast this morning," she said gayly, "andI know all about him. It appears that there are hundreds of him--all McHulishes--all along the coast and elsewhere--only none ofthem ever lived ON the island, and don't want to. But he looksmore like a 'laird' and a chief than Malcolm, and if it comes tochoosing a head of the family, remember, maw, I shall vote solidfor him."

"How can you go on so, Elsie?" said Mrs. Kirkby, with languidprotest. "Only I trust you didn't say anything to him of thesyndicate. And, thank Heaven! the property isn't here."

"No; the waiter tells me all the lovely things we had for breakfastcame from miles away. And they don't seem to have ever raisedanything on the island, from its looks. Think of having to rowthree miles for the morning's milk!"

There was certainly very little appearance of vegetation on thesterile crags that soon began to lift themselves above the steelywaves ahead. A few scraggy trees and bushes, which twisted andwrithed like vines around the square tower and crumbling walls ofan irregular but angular building, looked in their brown shadowslike part of the debris.

"It's just like a burnt-down bone-boiling factory," said Miss Elsiecritically; "and I shouldn't wonder if that really was oldMcHulish's business. They couldn't have it on the mainland for itsbeing a nuisance."

Nevertheless, she was one of the first to leap ashore when theyawl's bow grated in a pebbly cove, and carried her pretty butincongruous little slippers through the seaweed, wet sand, andslimy cobbles with a heroism that redeemed her vanity. Ascrambling ascent of a few moments brought them to a wall with agap in it, which gave easy ingress to the interior of the ruins.This was merely a little curving hollow from which the outlines ofthe plan had long since faded. It was kept green by the brownwalls, which, like the crags of the mainland valleys, sheltered itfrom the incessant strife of the Atlantic gales. A few paleflowers that might have grown in a damp cellar shivered against thestones. Scraps of newspapers, soda-water and beer bottles, highlydecorated old provision tins, and spent cartridge cases,--theremains of chilly picnics and damp shooting luncheons,--had atfirst sight lent color to the foreground by mere contrast, but thecorrosion of time and weather had blackened rather than mellowedthe walls in a way which forcibly reminded the consul of MissElsie's simile of the "burnt-down factory." The view from thesquare tower--a mere roost for unclean sea-fowl, from the sides ofwhich rags of peeling moss and vine hung like tattered clothing--was equally depressing. The few fishermen's huts along the shorewere built of stones taken from the ruin, and roofed in with soddenbeams and timbers in the last stages of deliquescence. The thicksmoke of smouldering peat-fires came from the low chimneys, anddrifted across the ruins with the odors of drying fish.

"I've just seen a sort of ground-plan of the castle," said MissElsie cheerfully. "It never had a room in it as big as our bedroomin the hotel, and there weren't windows enough to go round. A slitin the wall, about two inches wide by two feet long, was considereddazzling extravagance to Malcolm's ancestors. I don't wonder someof 'em broke out and swam over to America. That reminds me. Whodo you suppose is here--came over from the hotel in a boat of hisown, just to see maw!"

"Not Malcolm, surely."

"Not much," replied Miss Elsie, setting her small lips together."It's Mr. Custer. He's talking business with her now down on thebeach. They'll be here when lunch is ready."

The consul remembered the romantic plan which the enthusiasticCuster had imparted to him in the foggy consulate at St. Kentigern,and then thought of the matter of fact tourists, the few stolidfishermen, and the prosaic ruins around them, and smiled. He lookedup, and saw that Miss Elsie was watching him.

"You know Mr. Custer, don't you?"

"We are old Californian friends."

"I thought so; but I think he looked a little upset when he heardyou were here, too."

He certainly was a little awkward, as if struggling with some half-humorous embarrassment, as he came forward a few moments later withMrs. Kirkby. But the stimulation of the keen sea air triumphedover the infelicities of the situation and surroundings, and thelittle party were presently enjoying their well-selected luncheonwith the wholesome appetite of travel and change. The chill dampmade limp the napkins and table-cloth, and invaded the victuals;the wind, which was rising, whistled round the walls, and mademiniature cyclones of the torn paper and dried twigs around them:but they ate, drank, and were merry. At the end of the repast thetwo gentlemen rose to light their cigars in the lee of the wall.

"I suppose you know all about Malcolm?" said Custer, after anawkward pause.

"My dear fellow," said the consul, somewhat impatiently, "I knownothing about him, and you ought to know that by this time."

"Well, Malcolm's a crank--always was one, I reckon, and isreg'larly off his head now. Yes, sir; Scotch whiskey and yourfriend Sir James finished him. After that dinner at MacFen's hewas done for--went wild. Danced a sword-dance, or a strathspey, orsome other blamed thing, on the table, and yelled louder than thepipes. So they all did. Jack, I've painted the town red oncemyself; I thought I knew what a first-class jamboree was: but theywere prayer-meetings to that show. Everybody was blind drunk--butthey all got over it except HIM. THEY were a different lot of menthe next day, as cool and cautious as you please, but HE was shutup for a week, and came out crazy."

"But what's that to do with his claim?"

"Well, there ain't much use 'whooping up the boys' when only thewhooper gets wild."

"Still, that does not affect any right he may have in theproperty."

"But it affects the syndicate," said Custer gloomily; "and when wefound that he was whooping up some shopkeepers and factory handswho claimed to belong to the clan,--and you can't heave a stone ata dog around here without hitting a McHulish,--we concluded wehadn't much use for him ornamentally. So we shipped him home laststeamer."

"And the property?"

"Oh, that's all right," said Custer, still gloomily. "We'veeffected an amicable compromise, as Sir James calls it. That meanswe've taken a lot of land somewhere north, that you can shoot over--that is, you needn't be afraid of hitting a house, or a tree, or aman anywhere; and we've got a strip more of the same sort on theseashore somewhere off here, occupied only by some gay galootscalled crofters, and you can raise a lawsuit and an imprecation onevery acre. Then there's this soul-subduing, sequestered spot, andwhat's left of the old bone-boiling establishment, and the rightsof fishing and peat-burning, and otherwise creating a nuisance offthe mainland. It cost the syndicate only a hundred thousanddollars, half cash and half in Texan and Kentucky grass lands. Butwe've carried the thing through."

"I congratulate you," said the consul.

"Thanks." Custer puffed at his cigar for a few moments. "That SirJames MacFen is a fine man."

"Big man in the church, I should say? No slouch at a partycanvass, or ward politics, eh? As a board director, or president,just takes the cake, don't he?"

"I believe so."

"Nothing mean about Jimmy as an advocate or an arbitrator, either,is there? Rings the bell every time, don't he? Financiers take aback seat when he's around? Owns half of Scotland by this time, Ireckon."

The consul believed that Sir James had the reputation of beingexceedingly sagacious in financial and mercantile matters, and thathe was a man of some wealth.

"Naturally. I wonder what he'd take to come over to America, andgive the boys points," continued Custer, in meditative admiration."There were two or three men on Scott's River, and one Chinaman,that we used to think smart, but they were doddering ijuts to HIM.And as for me--I say, Jack, you didn't see any hayseed in my hairthat day I walked inter your consulate, did you?"

The consul smilingly admitted that he had not noticed these signsof rustic innocence in his friend.

"Nor any flies? Well, for all that, when I get home I'm going toresign. No more foreign investments for ME. When anybody calls atthe consulate and asks for H. J. Custer, say you don't know me.And you don't. And I say, Jack, try to smooth things over for mewith HER."

"With Miss Elsie?"

Custer cast a glance of profound pity upon the consul. "No withMrs. Kirkby, of course. See?"

The consul thought he did see, and that he had at last found a clueto Custer's extraordinary speculation. But, like most theoristswho argue from a single fact, a few months later he might havedoubted his deduction.

He was staying at a large country-house many miles distant from thescene of his late experiences. Already they had faded from hismemory with the departure of his compatriots from St. Kentigern.He was smoking by the fire in the billiard-room late one night whena fellow-guest approached him.

"Saw you didn't remember me at dinner."

The voice was hesitating, pleasant, and not quite unfamiliar. Theconsul looked up, and identified the figure before him as one ofthe new arrivals that day, whom, in the informal and easy courtesyof the house, he had met with no further introduction than a vaguesmile. He remembered, too, that the stranger had glanced at himonce or twice at dinner, with shy but engaging reserve.

"You must see such a lot of people, and the way things are arrangedand settled here everybody expects to look and act like everybodyelse, don't you know, so you can't tell one chap from another.Deuced annoying, eh? That's where you Americans are different, andthat's why those countrywomen of yours were so charming, don't youknow, so original. We were all together on the top of a coach inScotland, don't you remember? Had such a jolly time in the beastlyrain. You didn't catch my name. It's Duncaster."

The consul at once recalled his former fellow-traveler. The twomen shook hands. The Englishman took a pipe from his smoking-jacket, and drew a chair beside the consul.

"Yes," he continued, comfortably filling his pipe, "the daughter,Miss Kirkby, was awfully good fun; so fresh, so perfectly naturaland innocent, don't you know, and yet so extraordinarily sharp andclever. She had some awfully good chaff over that Scotch scenerybefore those Scotch tourists, do you remember? And it was all sobeastly true, too. Perhaps she's with you here?"

There was so much unexpected and unaffected interest in the youngEnglishman's eyes that the consul was quite serious in his regretsthat the ladies had gone back to Paris.

"I'd like to have taken them over to Audrey Edge from here. It'sno distance by train. I did ask them in Scotland, but I supposethey had something better to do. But you might tell them I've gotsome sisters there, and that it is an old place and not half bad,don't you know, when you write to them. You might give me theiraddress."

The consul did so, and added a few pleasant words regarding theirposition,--barring the syndicate,--which he had gathered fromCuster. Lord Duncaster's look of interest, far from abating,became gently confidential.

"I suppose you must see a good deal of your countrymen in yourbusiness, and I suppose, just like Englishmen, they differ, byJove! Some of them, don't you know, are rather pushing and anxiousfor position, and all that sort of thing; and some of 'em, likeyour friends, are quite independent and natural."

He stopped, and puffed slowly at his pipe. Presently he took itfrom his mouth, with a little laugh. "I've a mind to tell you arather queer experience of mine. It's nothing against your peoplegenerally, you know, nor do I fancy it's even an American type; soyou won't mind my speaking of it. I've got some property inScotland,--rather poor stuff you'd call it,--but, by Jove! someAmericans have been laying claim to it under some obscure plea ofrelationship. There might have been something in it, although notall they claim, but my business man, a clever chap up in yourplace,--perhaps you may have heard of him, Sir James MacFen,--wroteto me that what they really wanted were some ancestral lands withthe right to use the family name and privileges. The oddest partof the affair was that the claimant was an impossible sort oflunatic, and the whole thing was run by a syndicate of shrewdWestern men. As I don't care for the property, which has only beendropping a lot of money every year for upkeep and litigation, SirJames, who is an awfully far-sighted chap at managing, thought hecould effect a compromise, and get rid of the property at a fairvaluation. And, by Jove! he did. But what your countrymen can getout of it,--for the shooting isn't half as good as what they canget in their own country,--or what use the privileges are to them,I can't fancy."

"I think I know the story," said the consul, eying his fellow-guestattentively; "but if I remember rightly, the young man claimed tobe the rightful and only surviving heir."

The Englishman rose, and, bending over the hearth, slowly knockedthe ashes from his pipe. "That's quite impossible, don't you know.For," he added, as he stood up in front of the fire in face,figure, and careless repose more decidedly English than ever, "yousee my title of Duncaster only came to me through an uncle, but Iam the direct and sole heir of the old family, and the Scotchproperty. I don't perhaps look like a Scot,--we've been settled inEngland some time,--but," he continued with an invincible Englishdrawling deliberation, "I--am--really--you--know--what they callThe McHulish."

AN EPISODE OF WEST WOODLANDS.

I.

The rain was dripping monotonously from the scant eaves of thelittle church of the Sidon Brethren at West Woodlands. Hewn out ofthe very heart of a thicket of buckeye spruce and alder, unsunnedand unblown upon by any wind, it was so green and unseasoned in itssolitude that it seemed a part of the arboreal growth, and on dampSundays to have taken root again and sprouted. There were moss andshining spots on the underside of the unplaned rafters, littlegreen pools of infusoria stood on the ledge of the windows whosepanes were at times suddenly clouded by mysterious unknown breathsfrom without or within. It was oppressed with an extravagance ofleaves at all seasons, whether in summer, when green and limp theycrowded the porch, doorways, and shutters, or when penetratingknot-holes and interstices of shingle and clapboard, on somecreeping vine, they unexpectedly burst and bourgeoned on the wallslike banners; or later, when they rotted in brown heaps in corners,outlined the edges of the floor with a thin yellow border, orinvaded the ranks of the high-backed benches which served as pews.

There had been a continuous rustling at the porch and the shakingout of waterproofs and closing of umbrellas until the half-filledchurch was already redolent of damp dyes and the sulphur of Indiarubber. The eyes of the congregation were turned to the door withsomething more than the usual curiosity and expectation. For thenew revivalist preacher from Horse Shoe Bay was coming thatmorning. Already voices of authority were heard approaching, andkeeping up their conversation to the very door of the sacrededifice in marked contrast with the awed and bashful whisperings inthe porch of the ordinary congregation. The worshipers recognizedthe voices of Deacons Shadwell and Bradley; in the reverential hushof the building they seemed charged with undue importance.

"It was set back in the road for quiet in the Lord's work," saidBradley.

"Yes, but it oughtn't be hidden! Let your light so shine beforemen, you know, Brother Bradley," returned a deep voice,unrecognized and unfamiliar--presumably that of the newcomer.

"No, but if you left it stranded there in the wind and sun, greenand sappy as it is now, ye'd have every seam and crack startin'till the ribs shone through, and no amount of calkin' would make itwatertight agin. No; my idea is--clear out the brush and shadderaround it! Let the light shine in upon it! Make the waste placesglad around it, but keep it THERE! And that's my idea o' gen'ralmissionary work; that's how the gospel orter be rooted."

Here the bell, which from the plain open four-posted belfry abovehad been clanging with a metallic sharpness that had an oddimpatient worldliness about it, suddenly ceased.

"That bell," said Bradley's voice, with the same suggestion ofconveying important truths to the listening congregation within,"was took from the wreck of the Tamalpais. Brother Horley boughtit at auction at Horse Shoe Bay and presented it. You know theTamalpais ran ashore on Skinner's Reef, jest off here."

"Yes, with plenty of sea room, not half a gale o' wind blowing, andher real course fifty miles to westward! The whole watch must havedrunk or sunk in slothful idleness," returned the deep voice again.A momentary pause followed, and then the two deacons entered thechurch with the stranger.

He appeared to be a powerfully-built man, with a square, beardlesschin; a face that carried one or two scars of smallpox and a deeperone of a less peaceful suggestion, set in a complexion weather-beaten to the color of Spanish leather. Two small, moist grayeyes, that glistened with every emotion, seemed to contradict thehard expression of the other features. He was dressed in cheapblack, like the two deacons, with the exception of a loose, blackalpaca coat and the usual black silk neckerchief tied in a largebow under a turndown collar,--the general sign and symbol of aminister of his sect. He walked directly to the raised platform atthe end of the chapel, where stood a table on which was a pitcherof water, a glass and hymnbook, and a tall upright desk holding aBible. Glancing over these details, he suddenly paused, carefullylifted some hitherto undetected object from the desk beside theBible, and, stooping gently, placed it upon the floor. As ithopped away the congregation saw that it was a small green frog.The intrusion was by no means an unusual one, but some odd contrastbetween this powerful man and the little animal affected themprofoundly. No one--even the youngest--smiled; every one--even theyoungest--became suddenly attentive. Turning over the leaves ofthe hymnbook, he then gave out the first two lines of a hymn. Thechoir accordion in the front side bench awoke like an infant intowailing life, and Cissy Appleby, soprano, took up a little moremusically the lugubrious chant. At the close of the verse thepreacher joined in, after a sailor fashion, with a breezy bass thatseemed to fill the little building with the trouble of the sea.Then followed prayer from Deacon Shadwell, broken by "Amens" fromthe preacher, with a nautical suggestion of "Ay, ay," about them,and he began his sermon.

It was, as those who knew his methods might have expected, asuggestion of the conversation they had already overheard. Helikened the little chapel, choked with umbrage and rotting in itsdampness, to the gospel seed sown in crowded places, famishing inthe midst of plenty, and sterile from the absorptions of the moreactive life around it. He pointed out again the true work of thepioneer missionary; the careful pruning and elimination of thoseforces that grew up with the Christian's life, which many peoplefoolishly believed were a part of it. "The WORLD must live and theWORD must live," said they, and there were easy-going brethren whothought they could live together. But he warned them that theWorld was always closing upon--"shaddering"--and strangling theWord, unless kept down, and that "fair seemin' settlement," orcity, which appeared to be "bustin' and bloomin'" with life andprogress, was really "hustlin' and jostlin'" the Word of God, evenin the midst of these "fancy spires and steeples" it had erected toits glory. It was the work of the missionary pioneer to keep downor root out this carnal, worldly growth as much in the settlementas in the wilderness. Some were for getting over the difficulty bydragging the mere wasted "letter of the Word," or the rotten andwithered husks of it, into the highways and byways, where the"blazin'" scorn of the World would finish it. A low, penitentialgroan from Deacon Shadwell followed this accusing illustration.But the preacher would tell them that the only way was to boldlyattack this rankly growing World around them; to clear out freshpaths for the Truth, and let the sunlight of Heaven stream amongthem.

There was little doubt that the congregation was moved. Whateverthey might have thought of the application, the fact itself waspatent. The rheumatic Beaseleys felt the truth of it in theiraching bones; it came home to the fever and ague stricken Filgeesin their damp seats against the sappy wall; it echoed plainly inthe chronic cough of Sister Mary Strutt and Widow Doddridge; andCissy Appleby, with her round brown eyes fixed upon the speaker,remembering how the starch had been taken out of her Sunday frocks,how her long ringlets had become uncurled, her frills limp, andeven her ribbons lustreless, felt that indeed a prophet had arisenin Israel!

One or two, however, were disappointed that he had as yet given noindication of that powerful exhortatory emotion for which he wasfamed, and which had been said to excite certain correspondingcorybantic symptoms among his sensitive female worshipers. Whenthe service was over, and the congregation crowded around him,Sister Mary Strutt, on the outer fringe of the assembly, confidedto Sister Evans that she had "hearn tell how that when he was overat Soquel he prayed that pow'ful that all the wimmen got fits andtremblin' spells, and ole Mrs. Jackson had to be hauled off hislegs that she was kneelin' and claspin' while wrestling with theSperit."

"I reckon we seemed kinder strange to him this morning, and hewanted to jest feel his way to our hearts first," exclaimed BrotherJonas Steers politely. "He'll be more at home at evenin' service.It's queer that some of the best exhortin' work is done arter earlycandlelight. I reckon he's goin' to stop over with Deacon Bradleyto dinner."

But it appeared that the new preacher, now formally introduced asBrother Seabright, was intending to walk over to Hemlock Mills todinner. He only asked to be directed the nearest way; he would nottrouble Brother Shadwell or Deacon Bradley to come with him.

"But here's Cissy Appleby lives within a mile o' thar, and youcould go along with her. She'd jest admire to show you the way,"interrupted Brother Shadwell. "Wouldn't you, Cissy?"

Thus appealed to, the young chorister--a tall girl of sixteen orseventeen--timidly raised her eyes to Brother Seabright as he wasabout to repeat his former protestation, and he stopped.

"Ef the young lady IS goin' that way, it's only fair to accept herkindness in a Christian sperit," he said gently.

Cissy turned with a mingling of apology and bashfulness towards ayoung fellow who seemed to be acting as her escort, but who washesitating in an equal bashfulness, when Seabright added: "Andperhaps our young friend will come too?"

But the young friend drew back with a confused laugh, and BrotherSeabright and Cissy passed out from the porch together. For a fewmoments they mingled with the stream and conversation of thedeparting congregation, but presently Cissy timidly indicated adiverging bypath, and they both turned into it.

It was much warmer in the open than it had been in the chapel andthicket, and Cissy, by way of relieving a certain awkward tensionof silence, took off the waterproof cloak and slung it on her arm.This disclosed her five long brown cable-like curls that hung downher shoulders, reaching below her waist in some forgotten fashionof girlhood. They were Cissy's peculiar adornment, remarkable fortheir length, thickness, and the extraordinary youthfulnessimparted to a figure otherwise precociously matured. In somewavering doubt of her actual years and privileges, BrotherSeabright offered to carry her cloak for her, but she declined itwith a rustic and youthful pertinacity that seemed to settle thequestion. In fact, Cissy was as much embarrassed as she wasflattered by the company of this distinguished stranger. However,it would be known to all West Woodland that he had walked home withher, while nobody but herself would know that they had scarcelyexchanged a word. She noticed how he lounged on with a heavy,rolling gait, sometimes a little before or behind her as the pathnarrowed. At such times when they accidentally came in contact inpassing, she felt a half uneasy, physical consciousness of him,which she referred to his size, the scars on his face, or somelatent hardness of expression, but was relieved to see that he hadnot observed it. Yet this was the man that made grown women cry;she thought of old Mrs. Jackson fervently grasping the ploddingankles before her, and a hysteric desire to laugh, with the fearthat he might see it on her face, overcame her. Then she wonderedif he was going to walk all the way home without speaking, yet sheknew she would be more embarrassed if he began to talk to her.

Suddenly he stopped, and she bumped up against him.

"Oh, excuse me!" she stammered hurriedly.

"Eh?" He evidently had not noticed the collision. "Did youspeak?"

"No!--that is--it wasn't anything," returned the girl, coloring.

But he had quite forgotten her, and was looking intently beforehim. They had come to a break in the fringe of woodland, and upona sudden view of the ocean. At this point the low line of coast-range which sheltered the valley of West Woodlands was abruptlycloven by a gorge that crumbled and fell away seaward to the shoreof Horse Shoe Bay. On its northern trend stretched the settlementof Horse Shoe to the promontory of Whale Mouth Point, with itsoutlying reef of rocks curved inwards like the vast submerged jawof some marine monster, through whose blunt, tooth-like projectionsthe ship-long swell of the Pacific streamed and fell. On thesouthern shore the light yellow sands of Punta de las Concepcionglittered like sunshine all the way to the olive-gardens and whitedomes of the Mission. The two shores seemed to typify the twodifferent climates and civilizations separated by the bay.

The heavy, woodland atmosphere was quickened by the salt breath ofthe sea. The stranger inhaled it meditatively.

"That's the reef where the Tamalpais struck," he said, "and more'nfifty miles out of her course--yes, more'n fifty miles from whereshe should have bin! It don't look nat'ral. No--it--don't--look--nat'ral!"

As he seemed to be speaking to himself, the young girl, who hadbeen gazing with far greater interest at the foreign-lookingsouthern shore, felt confused and did not reply. Then, as ifrecalling her presence, Brother Seabright turned to her and said:--

"Yes, young lady; and when you hear the old bell of the Tamalpais,and think of how it came here, you may rejoice in the goodness ofthe Lord that made even those who strayed from the straight courseand the true reckoning the means of testifying onto Him."

But the young are quicker to detect attitudes and affectation thanwe are apt to imagine; and Cissy could distinguish a certain otherstraying in this afterthought or moral of the preacher called up byher presence, and knew that it was not the real interest which theview had evoked. She had heard that he had been a sailor, and,with the tact of her sex, answered with what she thought wouldentertain him:--

"I was a little girl when it happened, and I heard that somesailors got ashore down there, and climbed up this gully from therocks below. And they camped that night--for there were no housesat West Woodlands then--just in the woods where our chapel nowstands. It was funny, wasn't it?--I mean," she corrected herselfbashfully, "it was strange they chanced to come just there?"

But she had evidently hit the point of interest.

"What became of them?" he said quickly. "They never came to HorseShoe Settlement, where the others landed from the wreck. I neverheard of that boat's crew or of ANY landing HERE."

"No. They kept on over the range south to the Mission. I reckonthey didn't know there was a way down on this side to Horse Shoe,"returned Cissy.

Brother Seabright moved on and continued his slow, plodding march.But he kept a little nearer Cissy, and she was conscious that heoccasionally looked at her. Presently he said:--

"You have a heavenly gift, Miss Appleby."

Cissy flushed, and her hand involuntarily went to one of her long,distinguishing curls. It might be THAT. The preacher continued:--

"Yes; a voice like yours is a heavenly gift. And you have properlydevoted it to His service. Have you been singing long?"

"About two years. But I've got to study a heap yet."

"The little birds don't think it necessary to study to praise Him,"said the preacher sententiously.

It occurred to Cissy that this was very unfair argument. She saidquickly:--

"But the little birds don't have to follow words in the hymn-books.You don't give out lines to larks and bobolinks," and blushed.

The preacher smiled. It was a very engaging smile, Cissy thought,that lightened his hard mouth. It enabled her to take heart ofgrace, and presently to chatter like the very birds she haddisparaged. Oh yes; she knew she had to learn a great deal more.She had studied "some" already. She was taking lessons over atPoint Concepcion, where her aunt had friends, and she went threetimes a week. The gentleman who taught her was not a Catholic,and, of course, he knew she was a Protestant. She would havepreferred to live there, but her mother and father were both dead,and had left her with her aunt. She liked it better because it wassunnier and brighter there. She loved the sun and warmth. She hadlistened to what he had said about the dampness and gloom of thechapel. It was true. The dampness was that dreadful sometimes itjust ruined her clothes, and even made her hoarse. Did he thinkthey would really take his advice and clear out the woods round thechapel?

"Would you like it?" he asked pleasantly.

"Yes."

"And you think you wouldn't pine so much for the sunshine andwarmth of the Mission?

"I'm not pining," said Cissy with a toss of her curls, "foranything or anybody; but I think the woods ought to be cleared out.It's just as it was when the runaways hid there."

"I don't know. Didn't YOU?" said Cissy simply. "Didn't you saythey never came back to Horse Shoe Bay. Perhaps I had it fromaunty. But I know it's damp and creepy; and when I was littler Iused to be frightened to be alone there practicing."

"Why?" said the preacher quickly.

"Oh, I don't know," hurried on Cissy, with a vague impression thatshe had said too much. "Only my fancy, I guess."

"Well," said Brother Seabright after a pause; "we'll see what canbe done to make a clearing there. Birds sing best in the sunshine,and YOU ought to have some say about it."

Cissy's dimples and blushes came together this time. "That's ourhouse," she said suddenly, with a slight accent of relief, pointingto a weather-beaten farmhouse on the edge of the gorge. "I turnoff here, but you keep straight on for the Mills; they're back inthe woods a piece. But," she stammered with a sudden sense ofshame of forgotten hospitality, "won't you come in and see aunty?"

"No, thank you, not now." He stopped, turning his gaze from thehouse to her. "How old is your house? Was it there at the time ofthe wreck?"

"Yes," said Cissy.

"It's odd that the crew did not come there for help, eh?"

"Maybe they overlooked it in the darkness and the storm," saidCissy simply. "Good-by, sir."

The preacher held her hand for an instant in his powerful, butgently graduated grasp. "Good-by until evening service."

"Yes, sir," said Cissy.

The young girl tripped on towards her house a little agitated andconscious, and yet a little proud as she saw the faces of her aunt,her uncle, her two cousins, and even her discarded escort, JoAdams, at the windows, watching her.

"So," said her aunt, as she entered breathlessly, "ye walked homewith the preacher! It was a speshal providence and manifestationfor ye, Cissy. I hope ye was mannerly and humble--and profited bythe words of grace."

"I don't know," said Cissy, putting aside her hat and cloaklistlessly. "He didn't talk much of anything--but the old wreck ofthe Tamalpais."

"What?" said her aunt quickly.

"The wreck of the Tamalpais, and the boat's crew that came up thegorge," repeated the young girl.

"And what did HE know about the boat's crew?" said her aunthurriedly, fixing her black eyes on Cissy.

"Nothing except what I told him."

"What YOU told him!" echoed her aunt, with an ominous color fillingthe sallow hollows of her cheek.

"Yes! He has been a sailor, you know--and I thought it wouldinterest him; and it did! He thought it strange."

"Cecilia Jane Appleby," said her aunt shrilly, "do you mean to saythat you threw away your chances of salvation and saving grace justto tell gossiping tales that you knew was lies, and evil report,and false witnesses!"

"I only talked of what I'd heard, aunt Vashti," said Ceciliaindignantly. "And he afterwards talked of--of--my voice, and saidI had a heavenly gift," she added, with a slight quiver of her lip.

Aunt Vashti regarded the girl sharply.

"And you may thank the Lord for that heavenly gift," she said, in aslightly lowered voice; "for ef ye hadn't to use it tonight, I'dshut ye up in your room, to make it pay for yer foolish gaddin'TONGUE! And I reckon I'll escort ye to chapel tonight myself,miss, and get shut o' some of this foolishness."

II.

The broad plaza of the Mission de la Concepcion had been bakingin the day-long sunlight. Shining drifts from the outlying sanddunes, blown across the ill-paved roadway, radiated the heat in thefaces of the few loungers like the pricking of liliputian arrows,and invaded even the cactus hedges. The hot air visibly quiveredover the dark red tiles of the tienda roof as if they wereundergoing a second burning. The black shadow of a chimney on thewhitewashed adobe wall was like a door or cavernous opening in thewall itself; the tops of the olive and pear trees seen above itwere russet and sere already in the fierce light. Even the moistbreath of the sea beyond had quite evaporated before it crossed theplaza, and now rustled the leaves in the Mission garden with a dry,crepitant sound.

Nevertheless, it seemed to Cissy Appleby, as she crossed the plaza,a very welcome change from West Woodlands. Although the latewinter rains had ceased a month ago,--a few days after therevivalist preacher had left,--the woods around the chapel werestill sodden and heavy, and the threatened improvement in its sitehad not taken place. Neither had the preacher himself alluded toit again; his evening sermon--the only other one he preached there--was unexciting, and he had, in fact, left West Woodlands withoutany display of that extraordinary exhortatory faculty for which hewas famous. Yet Cissy, in spite of her enjoyment of the dry, hotMission, remembered him, and also recalled, albeit poutingly, hisblunt suggesting that she was "pining for it." Nevertheless, shewould like to have sung for him HERE--supposing it was possible toconceive of a Sidon Brotherhood Chapel at the Mission. It was agreat pity, she thought, that the Sidon Brotherhood and theFranciscan Brotherhood were not more brotherly TOWARDS EACH OTHER.Cissy belonged to the former by hereditary right, locality, andcircumstance, but it is to be feared that her theology wasimperfect.

She entered a lane between the Mission wall and a lighter ironfenced inclosure, once a part of the garden, but now theappurtenance of a private dwelling that was reconstructed over theheavy adobe shell of some forgotten structure of the oldecclesiastical founders. It was pierced by many windows andopenings, and that sunlight and publicity which the former padreshad jealously excluded was now wooed from long balconies andverandas by the new proprietor, a well to do American. ElishaBraggs, whose name was generously and euphoniously translated byhis native neighbors into "Don Eliseo," although a heretic, hadgiven largess to the church in the way of restoring its earthquake-shaken tower, and in presenting a new organ to its dilapidatedchoir. He had further endeared himself to the conservative Spanishpopulation by introducing no obtrusive improvements; by distributinghis means through the old channels; by apparently inciting nofurther alien immigration, but contenting himself to live aloneamong them, adopting their habits, customs, and language. Aharmless musical taste, and a disposition to instruct the young boychoristers, was equally balanced by great skill in horsemanship andthe personal management of a ranche of wild cattle on the inlandplains.

Consciously pretty, and prettily conscious in her white-starched,rose-sprigged muslin, her pink parasol, beribboned gypsy hat, andthe long mane-like curls that swung over her shoulders, Cissyentered the house and was shown to the large low drawing-room onthe ground-floor. She once more inhaled its hot potpourrifragrance, in which the spice of the Castilian rose-leaves of thegarden was dominant. A few boys, whom she recognized as thechoristers of the Mission and her fellow-pupils, were alreadyawaiting her with some degree of anxiety and impatience. Thisfact, and a certain quick animation that sprang to the blue eyes ofthe master of the house as the rose-sprigged frock and long curlsappeared at the doorway, showed that Cissy was clearly the favoritepupil.

Elisha Braggs was a man of middle age, with a figure somewhatrounded by the adipose curves of a comfortable life, and an air offastidiousness which was, however, occasionally at variance withwhat seemed to be his original condition. He greeted Cissy with acertain nervous overconsciousness of his duties as host andteacher, and then plunged abruptly into the lesson. It lasted anhour, Cissy tactfully dividing his somewhat exclusive instructionwith the others, and even interpreting it to their slowercomprehension. When it was over, the choristers shyly departed,according to their usual custom, leaving Cissy and Don Eliseo--andoccasionally one of the padres to more informal practicing andperformance. Neither the ingenuousness of Cissy nor the worldlycaution of aunt Vashti had ever questioned the propriety of theseprolonged and secluded seances; and the young girl herself,although by no means unaccustomed to the bashful attentions of theyouth of West Woodlands, had never dreamed of these later musicalinterviews as being anything but an ordinary recreation of her art.The feeling of gratitude and kindness she had for Don Eliseo, heraunt's friend, had never left her conscious or embarrassed when shewas alone with him. But to-day, possibly from his own nervousnessand preoccupation, she was aware of some vague uneasiness, and atan early opportunity rose to go. But Don Eliseo gently laid hishand on hers and said:--

"Don't go yet; I want to talk to you." His touch suddenly remindedher that once or twice before he had done the same thing, and shehad been disagreeably impressed by it. But she lifted her browneyes to his with an unconsciousness that was more crushing than awithdrawal of her hand, and waited for him to go on.

"It is such a long way for you to come, and you have so little timeto stay when you are here, that I am thinking of asking your auntto let you live here at the Mission, as a pupil, in the house ofthe Senora Hernandez, until your lessons are finished. Padre Josewill attend to the rest of your education. Would you like it?"

Poor Cissy's eyes leaped up in unaffected and sparkling affirmationbefore her tongue replied. To bask in this beloved sunshine fordays together; to have this quaint Spanish life before her eyes,and those soft Spanish accents in her ears; to forget herself inwandering in the old-time Mission garden beyond; to have dailyaccess to Mr. Braggs's piano and the organ of the church--this wasindeed the realization of her fondest dreams! Yet she hesitated.Somewhere in her inherited Puritan nature was a vague convictionthat it was wrong, and it seemed even to find an echo in thewarning of the preacher: this was what she was "pining for."

"I don't know," she stammered. "I must ask auntie; I shouldn'tlike to leave her; and there's the chapel."

"Isn't that revivalist preacher enough to run it for a while?" saidher companion, half-sneeringly.

The remark was not a tactful one.

"Mr. Seabright hasn't been here for a month," she answered somewhatquickly. "But he's coming next Sunday, and I'm glad of it. He's avery good man. And there's nothing he don't notice. He saw howsilly it was to stick the chapel into the very heart of the woods,and he told them so."

"And I suppose he'll run up a brand-new meeting-house out on theroad," said Braggs, smiling.

"No, he's going to open up the woods, and let the sun and light in,and clear out the underbrush."

"And what's that for?"

There was such an utter and abrupt change in the speaker's voiceand manner--which until then had been lazily fastidious andconfident--that Cissy was startled. And the change being rude anddictatorial, she was startled into opposition. She had wanted tosay that the improvement had been suggested by HER, but she took amore aggressive attitude.

"Brother Seabright says it's a question of religion and morals.It's a scandal and a wrong, and a disgrace to the Word, that thechapel should have been put there."

Don Eliseo's face turned so white and waxy that Cissy would havenoticed it had she not femininely looked away while taking thisattitude.

"I suppose that's a part of his sensation style, and veryeffective," he said, resuming his former voice and manner. "I musttry to hear him some day. But, now, in regard to your coming here,of course I shall consult your aunt, although I imagine she willhave no objection. I only wanted to know how YOU felt about it."He again laid his hand on hers.

"I should like to come very much," said Cissy timidly; "and it'svery kind of you, I'm sure; but you'll see what auntie says, won'tyou?" She withdrew her hand after momentarily grasping his, as ifhis own act had been only a parting salutation, and departed.

Aunt Vashti received Cissy's account of her interview with a grimsatisfaction. She did not know what ideas young gals had nowadays,but in HER time she'd been fit to jump outer her skin at such anoffer from such a good man as Elisha Braggs. And he was a richman, too. And ef he was goin' to give her an edication free, itwasn't goin' to stop there. For her part, she didn't like to putideas in young girls' heads,--goodness knows they'd enoughfoolishness already; but if Cissy made a Christian use of hergifts, and 'tended to her edication and privileges, and madeherself a fit helpmeet for any man, she would say that there werefew men in these parts that was as "comf'ble ketch" as Lish Braggs,or would make as good a husband and provider.

The blood suddenly left Cissy's cheeks and then returned withuncomfortable heat. Her aunt's words had suddenly revealed to herthe meaning of the uneasiness she had felt in Braggs's house thatmorning--the old repulsion that had come at his touch. She hadnever thought of him as a suitor or a beau before, yet it nowseemed perfectly plain to her that this was the ulterior meaning ofhis generosity. And yet she received that intelligence with thesame mixed emotions with which she had received his offer toeducate her. She did not conceal from herself the pride andsatisfaction she felt in this presumptive selection of her as hiswife; the worldly advantages that it promised; nor that it was adestiny far beyond her deserts. Yet she was conscious of exactlythe same sense of wrong-doing in her preferences--something thatseemed vaguely akin to that "conviction of sin" of which she hadheard so much--as when she received his offer of education. It wasthis mixture of fear and satisfaction that caused her alternatepaling and flushing, yet this time it was the fear that came first.Perhaps she was becoming unduly sensitive. The secretiveness ofher sex came to her aid here, and she awkwardly changed thesubject. Aunt Vashti, complacently believing that her words hadfallen on fruitful soil, discreetly said no more.

It was a hot morning when Cissy walked alone to chapel early nextSunday. There was a dry irritation in the air which even thenorthwest trades, blowing through the seaward gorge, could nottemper, and for the first time in her life she looked forward tothe leafy seclusion of the buried chapel with a feeling of longing.She had avoided her youthful escort, for she wished to practicealone for an hour before the service with the new harmonium thathad taken the place of the old accordion and its unskillfulperformer. Perhaps, too, there was a timid desire to be at herbest on the return of Brother Seabright, and to show him, with anew performance, that the "heavenly gift" had not been neglected.She opened the chapel with the key she always carried, "swished"away an intrusive squirrel, left the door and window open for amoment, until the beating of frightened wings against the raftershad ceased, and, after carefully examining the floor for spiders,mice, and other creeping things, brushed away a few fallen leavesand twigs from the top of the harmonium. Then, with her long curlstossed over her shoulders and hanging limply down the back of hernew maple-leaf yellow frock,--which was also a timid recognition ofBrother Seabright's return,--and her brown eyes turned to therafters, this rustic St. Cecilia of the Coast Range began to sing.The shell of the little building dilated with the melody; thesashes of the windows pulsated, the two ejected linnets joined intimidly from their coign of vantage in the belfry outside, and thelimp vines above the porch swayed like her curls. Once she thoughtshe heard stealthy footsteps without; once she was almost certainshe felt the brushing of somebody outside against the thin walls ofthe chapel, and once she stopped to glance quickly at the windowwith a strange instinct that some one was looking at her. But shequickly reflected that Brother Seabright would come there only whenthe deacons did, and with them. Why she should think that it wasBrother Seabright, or why Brother Seabright should come thus and atsuch a time, she could not have explained.

He did not, in fact, make his appearance until later, and after thecongregation had quite filled the chapel; he did not, moreover,appear to notice her as she sat there, and when he gave out thehymn he seemed to have quietly overlooked the new harmonium. Shesang her best, however, and more than one of the audience thoughtthat "little Sister Appleby" had greatly improved. Indeed, itwould not have seemed strange to some--remembering BrotherSeabright's discursive oratory--if he had made some allusion to it.But he did not. His heavy eyes moved slowly over the congregation,and he began.

As usual he did not take a text. But he would talk to them thatmorning about "The Conviction of Sin" and the sense of wrong-doingthat was innate in the sinner. This included all form oftemptation, for what was temptation but the inborn consciousnessof something to struggle against, and that was sin! At thisapparently concise exposition of her own feelings in regard to DonEliseo's offer, Cissy felt herself blushing to the roots of hercurls. Could it be possible that Brother Seabright had heard ofher temptation to leave West Woodlands, and that this warning wasintended for her? He did not even look in her direction. Yet hisnext sentence seemed to be an answer to her own mental query.

"Folks might ask," he continued, "if even the young andinexperienced should feel this--or was there a state of innocentguilt without consciousness?" He would answer that question bytelling them what had happened to him that morning. He had come tothe chapel, not by the road, but through the tangled woods behindthem (Cissy started)--through the thick brush and undergrowth thatwas choking the life out of this little chapel--the wilderness thathe had believed was never before trodden by human feet, and wasknown only to roaming beasts and vermin. But that was where he waswrong.

In the stillness and listening silence, a sudden cough from someone in one of the back benches produced that instantaneousdiversion of attention common to humanity on such occasions.Cissy's curls swung round with the others. But she was surprisedto see that Mr. Braggs was seated in one of the benches near thedoor, and from the fact of his holding a handkerchief to his mouth,and being gazed at by his neighbors, it was evident that it was hewho had coughed. Perhaps he had come to West Woodlands to talk toher aunt! With the preacher before her, and her probable suitorbehind her, she felt herself again blushing.

Brother Seabright continued. Yes, he was WRONG, for there beforehim, in the depths of the forest, were two children. They werelooking at a bush of "pizon berries,"--the deadly nightshade, as itwas fitly called,--and one was warning the other of its dangerousqualities.

"But how do you know it's the 'pizon berry'?" asked the other.

"Because it's larger, and nicer, and bigger, and easier to get thanthe real good ones," returned the other.

And it was so. Thus was the truth revealed from the mouths ofbabes and sucklings; even they were conscious of temptation andsin! But here there was another interruption from the backbenches, which proved, however, to be only the suppressed giggle ofa boy--evidently the youthful hero of the illustration, surprisedinto nervous hilarity.

The preacher then passed to the "Conviction of Sin" in its morefamiliar phases. Many brothers confounded this with DISCOVERY ANDPUBLICITY. It was not their own sin "finding them out," but othersdiscovering it. Until that happened, they fancied themselves safe,stilling their consciences, confounding the blinded eye of theworld with the all-seeing eye of the Lord. But were they safe eventhen? Did not sooner or later the sea deliver up its dead, theearth what was buried in it, the wild woods what its depths hadhidden? Was not the foolish secret, the guilty secret, theforgotten sin, sure to be disclosed? Then if they could not flyfrom the testimony of His works, if they could not evade even theirfellow-man, why did they not first turn to Him? Why, from thepenitent child at his mother's knee to the murderer on thescaffold, did they only at THE LAST confess unto Him?

His voice and manner had suddenly changed. From the rough note ofaccusation and challenge it had passed into the equally rough, butbroken and sympathetic, accents of appeal. Why did they hesitatelonger to confess their sin--not to man--but unto Him? Why didthey delay? Now--that evening! That very moment! This was theappointed time! He entreated them in the name of religious faith,in the name of a human brotherly love. His delivery was now nolonger deliberate, but hurried and panting; his speech now nolonger chosen, but made up of reiterations and repetitions,ejaculations, and even incoherent epithets. His gestures and longintonations which began to take the place of even that interruptedspeech affected them more than his reasoning! Short sighs escapedthem; they swayed to and fro with the rhythm of his voice andmovements. They had begun to comprehend this exacerbation ofemotion--this paroxysmal rhapsody. This was the dithyrambicexaltation they had ardently waited for. They responded quickly.First with groans, equally inarticulate murmurs of assent, shoutsof "Glory," and the reckless invocation of sacred names. Then awave of hysteria seemed to move the whole mass, and broke intotears and sobs among the women. In her own excited consciousnessit seemed to Cissy that some actual struggle between good and evil--like unto the casting out of devils--was shaking the littlebuilding. She cast a hurried glance behind her and saw Mr. Braggssitting erect, white and scornful. She knew that she too wasshrinking from the speaker,--not from any sense of conviction, butbecause he was irritating and disturbing her innate sense offitness and harmony,--and she was pained that Mr. Braggs should seehim thus. Meantime the weird, invisible struggle continued,heightened and, it seemed to her, incited by the partisan groansand exultant actions of those around her, until suddenly a wilddespairing cry arose above the conflict. A vague fear seized her--the voice was familiar! She turned in time to see the figure ofaunt Vashti rise in her seat with a hysterical outburst, and fallconvulsively forward upon her knees! She would have rushed to herside, but the frenzied woman was instantly caught by DeaconShadwell and surrounded by a group of her own sex and becamehidden. And when Cissy recovered herself she was astonished tofind Brother Seabright--with every trace of his past emotionvanished from his hard-set face--calmly taking up his coherentdiscourse in his ordinary level tones. The furious struggle of themoment before was over; the chapel and its congregation had fallenback into an exhausted and apathetic silence! Then the preachergave out the hymn--the words were singularly jubilant among thatusually mournful collection in the book before her--and Cissy beganit with a tremulous voice. But it gained strength, clearness, andvolume as she went on, and she felt thrilled throughout with a newhuman sympathy she had never known before. The preacher's basssupported her now for the first time not unmusically--and theservice was over.

Relieved, she turned quickly to join her aunt, but a hand was laidgently upon her shoulder. It was Brother Seabright, who had juststepped from the platform. The congregation, knowing her to be theniece of the hysteric woman, passed out without disturbing them.

"But, excuse me, I must look after auntie," she added, drawingtimidly away.

"Your aunt is better, and has gone on with Sister Shadwell. She isnot in need of your help, and really would do better without youjust now. I shall see her myself presently."

"But YOU made her sick already," said Cissy, with a sudden, half-nervous audacity. "You even frightened ME."

"Frightened you?" repeated Seabright, looking at her quickly.

"Yes," said Cissy, meeting his gaze with brown, truthful eyes."Yes, when you--when you--made those faces. I like to hear youtalk, but"--she stopped.

Brother Seabright's rare smile again lightened his face. But itseemed sadder than when she had first seen it.

"Then you have been practicing again at the Mission?" he saidquietly; "and you still prefer it?"

"Yes," said Cissy. She wanted to appear as loyal to the Mission inBrother Seabright's presence as she was faithful to West Woodlandsin Mr. Braggs's. She had no idea that this was dangerously near tocoquetry. So she said a little archly, "I don't see why YOU don'tlike the Mission. You're a missionary yourself. The old padrescame here to spread the Word. So do you."

"But not in that way," he said curtly. "I've seen enough of themwhen I was knocking round the world a seafaring man and a sinner.I knew them--receivers of the ill-gotten gains of adventurers,fools, and scoundrels. I knew them--enriched by the spoils ofpersecution and oppression; gathering under their walls outlaws andfugitives from justice, and flinging an indulgence here and anabsolution there, as they were paid for it. Don't talk to me ofTHEM--I know them."

They were passing out of the chapel together, and he made animpatient gesture as if dismissing the subject. Accustomed thoughshe was to the sweeping criticism of her Catholic friends by herWest Woodlands associates, she was nevertheless hurt by hisbrusqueness. She dropped a little behind, and they separated atthe porch. Notwithstanding her anxiety to see her aunt, she feltshe could not now go to Deacon Shadwell's without seeming to followhim--and after he had assured her that her help was not required!She turned aside and made her way slowly towards her home.

There she found that her aunt had not returned, gathering fromher uncle that she was recovering from a fit of "high strikes"(hysterics), and would be better alone. Whether he underrated hercomplaint, or had a consciousness of his masculine helplessness insuch disorders, he evidently made light of it. And when Cissy,afterwards, a little ashamed that she had allowed her momentarypique against Brother Seabright to stand in the way of her duty,determined to go to her aunt, instead of returning to the chapelthat evening, he did not oppose it. She learned also that Mr.Braggs had called in the morning, but, finding that her aunt Vashtiwas at chapel, he had followed her there, intending to return withher. But he had not been seen since the service, and had evidentlyreturned to the Mission.

But when she reached Deacon Shadwell's house she was received byMrs. Shadwell only. Her aunt, said that lady, was physicallybetter, but Brother Seabright had left "partkler word" that she wasto see nobody. It was an extraordinary case of "findin' the Lord,"the like of which had never been known before in West Woodlands,and she (Cissy) would yet be proud of one of her "fammerly beingspeshally selected for grace." But the "workin's o' salvation wasnot to be finicked away on worldly things or even the affections ofthe flesh;" and if Cissy really loved her aunt, "she wouldn'tinterfere with her while she was, so to speak, still on themourners' bench, wrastlin' with the Sperret in their back sittin'-room." But she might wait until Brother Seabright's return fromevening chapel after service.

Cissy waited. Nine o'clock came, but Brother Seabright did notreturn. Then a small but inconsequent dignity took possession ofher, and she slightly tossed her long curls from her shoulders.She was not going to wait for any man's permission to see her ownaunt. If auntie did not want to see her, that was enough. Shecould go home alone. She didn't want any one to go with her.

Lifted and sustained by these lofty considerations, with an erecthead and slightly ruffled mane, well enwrapped in a becoming whitemerino "cloud," the young girl stepped out on her homeward journey.She had certainly enough to occupy her mind and, perhaps, justifyher independence. To have a suitor for her hand in the person ofthe superior and wealthy Mr. Braggs,--for that was what his visitthat morning to West Woodlands meant,--and to be personallycomplimented on her improvement by the famous Brother Seabright,all within twelve hours, was something to be proud of, evenalthough it was mitigated by her aunt's illness, her suitor'sabrupt departure, and Brother Seabright's momentary coldness andimpatience. Oddly enough, this last and apparently trivialcircumstance occupied her thoughts more than the others. She foundherself looking out for him in the windings of the moonlit road,and when, at last, she reached the turning towards the little woodand chapel, her small feet unconsciously lingered until she feltherself blushing under her fleecy "cloud." She looked down thelane. From the point where she was standing the lights of thechapel should have been plainly visible; but now all was dark. Itwas nearly ten o'clock, and he must have gone home by another road.Then a spirit of adventure seized her. She had the key of thechapel in her pocket. She remembered she had left a small blackSpanish fan--a former gift of Mr. Braggs lying on the harmonium.She would go and bring it away, and satisfy herself that BrotherSeabright was not there still. It was but a step, and in the clearmoonlight.

The lane wound before her like a silver stream, except where it wasinterrupted and bridged over by jagged black shadows. The chapelitself was black, the clustering trees around it were black also;the porch seemed to cover an inky well of shadow; the windows wererayless and dead, and in the chancel one still left open showed ayawning vault of obscurity within. Nevertheless, she opened thedoor softly, glided into the dark depths, and made her way to theharmonium. But here the sound of footsteps without startled her;she glanced hurriedly through the open window, and saw the figureof Elisha Braggs suddenly revealed in the moonlight as he crossedthe path behind the chapel. He was closely followed by two peons,whom she recognized as his servants at the Mission, and they eachcarried a pickaxe. From their manner it was evident that they hadno suspicion of her presence in the chapel. But they had stoppedand were listening. Her heart beat quickly; with a sudden instinctshe ran and bolted the door. But it was evidently another intruderthey were watching, for she presently saw Brother Seabright quietlycross the lane and approach the chapel. The three men haddisappeared; but there was a sudden shout, the sound of scuffling,the deep voice of Brother Seabright saying, "Back, there, will you!Hands off!" and a pause. She could see nothing; she listened inevery pulse. Then the voice of Brother Seabright arose again quiteclearly, slowly, and as deliberately as if it had risen from theplatform in the chapel.

"Lish Barker! I thought as much! Lish Barker, first mate of theTamalpais, who was said to have gone down with a boat's crew andthe ship's treasure after she struck. I THOUGHT I knew that facetoday."

"Yes," said the voice of him whom she had known as Elisha Braggs,--"yes, and I knew YOUR face, Jim Seabright, ex-whaler, slaver,pirate, and bo's'n of the Highflyer, marooned in the South Pacific,where you found the Lord--ha! ha!--and became the psalm-singing,converted American sailor preacher!"

"I am not ashamed before men of my past, which every one knows,"returned Seabright slowly. "But what of YOURS, Elisha Barker--YOURS that has made you sham death itself to hide it from them?What of YOURS--spent in the sloth of your ill-gotten gains! Turn,sinner, turn! Turn, Elisha Braggs, while there is yet time!"

"Belay there, Brother Seabright; we're not INSIDE your gospel-shopjust now! Keep your palaver for those that need it. Let me pass,before I have to teach you that you haven't to deal with a gang ofhysterical old women to-night."

"But not until you know that one of those women,--Vashti White,--by God's grace converted of her sins, has confessed her secret andyours, Elisha Barker! Yes! She has told me how her sister'shusband--the father of the young girl you are trying to lure away--helped you off that night with your booty, took his miserablereward and lived and died in exile with the rest of your wretchedcrew,--afraid to return to his home and country--whilst you--shameless and impenitent--lived in slothful ease at the Mission!"

"Liar! Let me pass!"

"Not until I know your purpose here to-night."

"Then take the consequences! Here, Pedro! Ramon! Seize him. Tiehim head and heels together, and toss him in the bush!"

The sound of scuffling recommenced. The struggle seemed fierce andlong, with no breath wasted in useless outcry. Then there was abright flash, a muffled report, and the stinging and fire ofgunpowder at the window.

Transfixed with fear, Cissy cast a despairing glance around her.Ah, the bell-rope! In another instant she had grasped itfrantically in her hands.

All the fear, indignation, horror, sympathy, and wild appeal forhelp that had arisen helplessly in her throat and yet remainedunuttered, now seemed to thrill through her fingers and thetightened rope, and broke into frantic voice in the clanging metalabove her. The whole chapel, the whole woodland, the clear,moonlit sky above was filled with its alarming accents. Itshrieked, implored, protested, summoned, and threatened, in oneceaseless outcry, seeming to roll over and over--as, indeed, itdid--in leaps and bounds that shook the belfry. Never before, evenin the blows of the striking surges, had the bell of the Tamalpaisclamored like that! Once she heard above the turmoil the shakingof the door against the bolt that still held firmly; once shethought she heard Seabright's voice calling to her; once shethought she smelled the strong smoke of burning grass. But shekept on, until the window was suddenly darkened by a figure, andBrother Seabright, leaping in, caught her in his arms as she wasreeling fainting, but still clinging to the rope. But his strongpresence and some powerful magnetism in his touch restored her.

"You have heard all!" he said.

"Yes."

"Then for your aunt's sake, for your dead father's sake, FORGETall! That wretched man has fled with his wounded hirelings--lethis sin go with him. But the village is alarmed--the brethren maybe here any moment! Neither question nor deny what I shall tellthem. Fear nothing. God will forgive the silence that leaves thevengeance to His hands alone!" Voices and footsteps were heardapproaching the chapel. Brother Seabright significantly pressedher hand and strode towards the door. Deacon Shadwell was first toenter.

"You here--Brother Seabright! What has happened?"

"God be praised!" said Brother Seabright cheerfully, "nothing ofconsequence! The danger is over! Yet, but for the courage andpresence of mind of Sister Appleby a serious evil might havebeen done." He paused, and with another voice turned half-interrogatively towards her. "Some children, or a passing tramp,had carelessly thrown matches in the underbrush, and they wereignited beside the chapel. Sister Appleby, chancing to return herefor"--

"For my fan," said Cissy with a timid truthfulness of accent.

"Found herself unable to cope with it, and it occurred to her togive the alarm you heard. I happened to be passing and was firstto respond. Happily the flames had made but little headway, andwere quickly beaten down. It is all over now. But let us hopethat the speedy clearing out of the underbrush and the opening ofthe woods around the chapel will prevent any recurrence of thealarm of to-night."

. . . . . .

That the lesson thus reiterated by Brother Seabright was effective,the following extract, from the columns of the "Whale PointGazette," may not only be offered as evidence, but may even givethe cautious reader further light on the episode itself:--

STRANGE DISCOVERY AT WEST WOODLANDS.--THE TAMALPAIS MYSTERY AGAIN.

The improvements in the clearing around the Sidon Chapel at WestWoodlands, undertaken by the Rev. James Seabright, have disclosedanother link in the mystery which surrounded the loss of theTamalpais some years ago at Whale Mouth Point. It will beremembered that the boat containing Adams & Co.'s treasure, theTamalpais' first officer, and a crew of four men was lost on therocks shortly after leaving the ill-fated vessel. None of thebodies were ever recovered, and the treasure itself completelybaffled the search of divers and salvers. A lidless box bearingthe mark of Adams & Co., of the kind in which their treasure wasusually shipped, was yesterday found in the woods behind thechapel, half buried in brush, bark, and windfalls. There were noother indications, except the traces of a camp-fire at some remoteperiod, probably long before the building of the chapel. But howand when the box was transported to the upland, and by whoseagency, still remains a matter of conjecture. Our reporter whovisited the Rev. Mr. Seabright, who has lately accepted the regularministry of the chapel, was offered every facility for information,but it was evident that the early settlers who were cognizant ofthe fact--if there were any--are either dead or have left thevicinity.

THE HOME-COMING OF JIM WILKES.

I.

For many minutes there had been no sound but the monotonousdrumming of the rain on the roof of the coach, the swishing ofwheels through the gravelly mud, and the momentary clatter of hoofsupon some rocky outcrop in the road. Conversation had ceased; thelight-hearted young editor in the front seat, more than suspectedof dangerous levity, had relapsed into silence since the heavy manin the middle seat had taken to regarding the ceiling withostentatious resignation, and the thin female beside him hadaverted her respectable bonnet. An occasional lurch of the coachbrought down a fringe of raindrops from its eaves that filmed thewindows and shut out the sodden prospect already darkening intonight. There had been a momentary relief in their hurried dashthrough Summit Springs, and the spectacle of certain newly arrivedCounty Delegates crowding the veranda of its one hotel; but thatwas now three miles behind. The young editor's sole resource wasto occasionally steal a glance at the face of the one passenger whoseemed to be in sympathy with him, but who was too far away foreasy conversation. It was the half-amused, half-perplexed face ofa young man who had been for some time regarding him from a remotecorner of the coach with an odd mingling of admiring yet cogitatinginterest, which, however, had never extended to any furtherencouragement than a faint sad smile. Even this at last faded outin the growing darkness; the powerful coach lamps on either sidethat flashed on the wayside objects gave no light to the interior.Everybody was slowly falling asleep. Suddenly everybody woke up tofind that the coach was apparently standing still! When it hadstopped no one knew! The young editor lowered his window. Thecoach lamp on that side was missing, but nothing was to be seen.In the distance there appeared to be a faint splashing.

"Well," called out an impatient voice from the box above; "what doyou make it?" It was the authoritative accents of Yuba Bill, thedriver, and everybody listened eagerly for the reply.

It came faintly from the distance and the splashing. "Almost fourfeet here, and deepening as you go."

"Dead water?"

"No--back water from the Fork."

There was a general movement towards the doors and windows. Thesplashing came nearer. Then a light flashed on the trees, thewindows, and--two feet of yellow water peacefully flowing beneaththem! The thin female gave a slight scream.

"There's no danger," said the Expressman, now wading towards themwith the coach lamp in his hand. "But we'll have to pull round outof it and go back to the Springs. There's no getting past thisbreak to-night."

"Why didn't you let us know this before," said the heavy manindignantly from the window.

"Jim," said the driver with that slow deliberation which instantlyenforced complete attention.

"Yes, Bill."

"Have you got a spare copy of that reg'lar bulletin that the StageKempany issoos every ten minutes to each passenger to tell 'emwhere we are, how far it is to the next place, and wots the stateo' the weather gin'rally?"

"No!" said the Expressman grimly, as he climbed to the box,"there's not one left. Why?"

"Cos the Emperor of Chiny's inside wantin' one! Hoop! Keep yourseats down there! G'lang!" the whip cracked, there was a desperatesplashing, a backward and forward jolting of the coach, theglistening wet flanks and tossing heads of the leaders seen for amoment opposite the windows, a sickening swirl of the whole body ofthe vehicle as if parting from its axles, a long straight draggingpull, and--presently the welcome sound of hoofs once more beatingthe firmer ground.

"Hi! Hold up--driver!"

It was the editor's quiet friend who was leaning from the window.

"Isn't Wilkes's ranch just off here?"

"Yes, half a mile along the ridge, I reckon," returned the drivershortly.

To descend, the passenger was obliged to pass out by the middleseat and before the young editor. As he did so he cast a shy lookon him and, leaning over, said hesitatingly, in a lower voice: "Idon't think you will be able to get in at the Springs Hotel. If--if--you care to come with me to--to--the ranch, I can take care ofyou."

The young editor--a man of action--paused for an instant only.Then seizing his bag, he said promptly: "Thank you," and followedhis newly-found friend to the ground. The whip cracked, the coachrolled away.

"You know Wilkes?" he said.

"Ye-ee-s. He's my father."

"Ah," said the editor cheerfully, "then you're going home?"

"Yes."

It was quite light in the open, and the stranger, after a moment'ssurvey of the prospect,--a survey that, however, seemed to becharacterized by his previous hesitation,--said: "This way,"crossed the road, and began to follow a quite plain but longdisused wagon track along the slope. His manner was still soembarrassed that the young editor, after gayly repeating his thanksfor his companion's thoughtful courtesy, followed him in silence.At the end of ten minutes they had reached some cultivated fieldsand orchards; the stranger brightened, although still with apreoccupied air, quickened his pace, and then suddenly stopped.When the editor reached his side he was gazing with apparentlystill greater perplexity upon the level, half obliterated, andblackened foundations of what had been a large farmhouse.

"Why, it's been burnt down!" he said thoughtfully.

The editor stared at him! Burnt down it certainly had been, but byno means recently. Grasses were already springing up from thecharred beams in the cellar, vines were trailing over the fallenchimneys, excavations, already old, had been made among the ruins."When were you here last?" the editor asked abruptly.